


The Riders

by mssrj_335



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Artistic Liberties, Biblical Apocalypse, Blasphemy, Dark Fantasy, Dark Imagery, FinnPoeWeek20, Horseman Finn, Horseman Poe, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Music, Lust, M/M, POV Finn (Star Wars), Sharing a Bed, Weird sexual metaphors, greed - Freeform, hunger, kind of, maybe some grotesque imagery, the author is back on their weird bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25480144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssrj_335/pseuds/mssrj_335
Summary: He's thirsty. is it time to go? something's calling from the light. smoke on the air, clashing metal. the window's open.oh. there's Poe. braced against the window frame, watching as god might. if there were such a thing.
Relationships: Finn/Poe Dameron, Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19
Collections: FinnPoe Week 2020





	The Riders

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not sure what this is  
> to dig into some of the boys' more negative traits maybe?  
> probably just an excuse to write some weird shit  
> have fun
> 
> song inspo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXtaxjK3-70

the bell tolls its sixth. at least, He thinks it's the bell. it might just be His heart ringing in His head.

who knows.

Finn barely feels Himself. limbs distant. disjointed. disarticulate. another day. _is it day?_ light's shining but that doesn't mean anything anymore. the face on the clock doesn't mean anything either. time no longer marches linear. it splits, spins. redoubles to renew what torture may wreak. He pulls Himself up. Their bed's still warm, only half full.

Poe's gone.

the stone's cold beneath Finn's feet, enough to jab into His conscious thought and create sensation. red. _blood_? no. red--as Poe's fiery gaze--silky sheets fall from His hips, slithering to the stone with barest whisper. He's thirsty. _is it time to go_? something's calling from the light. smoke on the air, clashing metal. the window's open.

oh. there's Poe. braced against the window frame, watching as god might if there were such a thing.

that's what's calling Him. not time yet, then. it's not a verbalization, just a feeling. a pull in His stomach and thighs and feet, inexorable. instant. it heaves Finn to stand, drags Him through the draft and the thirst to the light. Poe doesn't turn when He approaches. doesn't twitch when Finn slides arms around His waist. He sighs though, considering. the stretch and pull of Him shifts Finn's grip. He consumes it, His only sustenance left. buries His face in Poe's shoulders like He's buried His freedom. Poe's skin, His only kingdom left to rest. Finn turns. smooth bone in Poe's back rises and falls with His breath, pushing against the flesh of Finn's cheek, riding the arch exposed zygomatic.

"You'll ride soon," Poe croaks.

it's been so long. what words He speaks might well be a sword, falling, severing thought to sprout sensation from its corpse. Finn reels. fits His teeth to the expanse of skin where neck and shoulder meet. starves. Poe sighs again, deep and full. the slide of it slakes His thirst.

He finds breath to reply. "yes."

Poe’s head falls back, clacks Finn’s clavicle. He fits perfectly there. He's always fit perfectly there, all Their lifetimes over. Hunger twists angry in Finn's stomach. He wants to taste that perpetual flush beneath Poe's tan skin. the ethos of War and blood that rises volatile to His tongue and fills what air His lungs still draw. Poe swallows. it clicks in Finn’s ears.

"would You spare any?"

what a question. a tease. or a test. the line’s too blurred to know anymore. but He can still play the game. trailing, rising from Poe's hips to His throat, fingers more bone than tissue. still Hungry. searching always. they settle around Poe's throat, whose pounding pulse rattles Finn to His ligaments.

"would You want Me to?" He murmurs.

He tightens His grip, minutely. Poe gasps, no more a parting of lips. a tease. a test. Finn aches. right down to His teeth. each breath Poe takes—a fusillade, burying in what’s left of Finn’s flesh. venerated, worshipped there. whatever the order, whatever the call, He would follow. like Poe would follow Him. They're caught like that, in shackles of skin and bone, greed. Together.

They’d never be free.

He’d never want to be.

it makes it all the sweeter when Poe asks, “I trust that You love Me?”

at any other ear, it would ring of authority. not a question. an order, thinly veiled. He knows better, though. Finn lets His tongue ghost behind Poe’s ear, over His cheek, to the corner of His mouth. feeling has returned enough for Him to know the question hidden in the way Poe shudders.

He whispers to that commissure, the edge of that mouth’s vermillion border, “why would You care?”

Poe reaches over His shoulder, grips Finn by the back of His neck. dragging, demanding. Finn resists just for the pleasure it gives Him. He holds Poe’s chin tight, pulls it to part His lips. His eyes flash beneath half-lidded lashes, red War.

Poe’s mouth curls, “I give You My legions—”

_as if that would appease._

“I don’t need them.”

Finn’s hands search again, always Hungry, always grasping what sustenance can be derived from flesh--temptation given life through metacarpals. breaths turn to pants. frustrated. Poe arches back, teeth bared.

“I give You My kingdom—”

_what would He need of it?_

Finn wraps Him in, ravenous now. “so?”

Finn finds Him beneath fabric and pulls, imagining what heat distal phalanges can no longer feel. Poe catches Him fire, burning. Quick and consuming. His voice cuts short, groans, deep and full and hot on Finn’s cheek. it echoes through Finn’s bones and buries itself as coal in His heart, so hot He hisses with it. He’s too cold to keep it there. it’d burn Him out. But He’ll keep it as long as He can. let it feed His hunger until the call comes to ride.

still He waits.

Poe grapples with Him, riding a desperate edge. “You want the same, then?”

“why try to give what You know I don’t want?” He whispers again to that corner, smearing His mouth to taste metal—Poe’s mettle. “if I loved You, what else would I ask for? tell Me. You, Destruction, who would You want Me to spare?”

He’s starving to hear it.

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” there’s no command, no hint of it. only pleading, twisting. lips graze Finn’s mouth, a specter of speech. they shape, “none. spare none. not even Me. take it all— _please_.”

chest to back, tangled and taut, Poe hallows Him. and _please_ makes Him tear, drawn and quartered on the line between love and greed. a thumb presses at Poe’s lips, a prayer. Finn's Hungry. starving. He separates mandible from maxilla so He can feast there. draws Poe in. to the room, to bed, where He can devour Him again and again and again. take of His body and blood when Poe whispers exaltation. holy sacrament--mocked in the mixing of Them--until Poe's all He feels, or knows. the only thing that ends His Hunger.

all else forgotten until called for the end.

the light’s not morning.

it's fire.

wrath.

coming War, soon followed by Famine.

**Author's Note:**

> well. there's that lol  
> if you made it this far, thank you for reading


End file.
